Padawanbater2
Well-Known Member
What Is Right And Wrong?
During my brief time with the US Air Force I participated in many jobs, extra duties, and
public activities. Amongst these, the one that truly stands out to me was the time that I spent
with the Scott Air Force Base Honor Guard. Here, I was faced with one of the most difficult
tasks that I have ever encountered throughout my life, and I will never forget it.
The Honor Guard is a group of military individuals that work as a set of teams to provide
ceremonial displays for a number of different types of events. Among their many duties, they
can raise the flag at the beginning of a sporting season, provide ceremonial guard at the Tomb of
the Unknown Soldier, and provide the last honors at a military funeral. Although all of their jobs
are equally important, the funerals seem to stand out in people's minds above all else. Almost
everyone instantly imagines servicemen carrying a casket in the rain, folding and presenting the
US flag to a family member who has lost a loved one, and the firing party conducting a
twenty-one gun salute for the deceased.
With these depressing images, it's no surprise that one of the most asked questions is,
“How did you do it without crying?” And, while keeping your “military bearing” can be one of
the most difficult aspects of the job, it is extremely necessary in order to provide the dignity and
honor to the deceased, that they earned throughout their service.
Not everyone was able to maintain their composure while they looked into the eyes of
another person, witnessed the grieving for a lost loved one, and presented a flag in exchange for
someone that could never be replaced. For this reason, there were a specified few of us that were
entrusted to carry out this part of the ceremony, every time. We trained rigorously, and had
several tricks to distance ourselves from the situation to preserve our military bearing and
professionalism.
Amongst these tricks, we used repetition and memorization to remove the grieving and
sadness from the funeral and make it a more impersonal job. When presenting a folded flag to
the next of kin, it was mandated that the individual recite, “On behalf of the President of the
United States, the Department of the Air Force, and a grateful nation, I present, to you, this flag.
You and your family are in our thoughts and prayers on this day.” A similar speech was
mandated when that individual returned to present three of the fired rifle casings used in the final
salute. These speeches were recited, practiced, and memorized to a point where it was no longer
personal, but almost mechanical.
Everything was calculated, planned, and practiced thousands of times before the public
ever saw us “perform” our duties. Even our commands and motions were mandated and
conducted to the point that a right hand was to be presented over a left hand in one situation, and
vice-versa in another. We used exorbitant amounts of attention to detail to focus our minds on
our job instead of the grieving that was all around us, all of the time. This routine and practice,
coupled with the extreme attention to detail, gave us an essential tool to provide the respect and
professionalism that was expected of us.
Although I knew that this was the case, I never understood just what a valuable tool this
was until it was too late.
One August day, we received notice that there would be a funeral for a young girl in our
area, and that we needed to prepare for it. The details of this particular funeral would quickly
come to light since we were unable to find any information on the young lady. It was almost as if
she had never joined the Air Force at all.
On top of this, we were asked to provide two flags, as well as two shadow boxes for those
flags, for the funeral. This information usually meant that the flags would be presented to the
parents of the deceased, and that those parents were separated.
Assembling the shadow boxes for these flags proved to be extremely difficult since we
were unable to find her rank, name tags, or any medals that she had been awarded. We were
forced to fabricate these items ourselves, which delayed the assembly even further.
Because of this issue, it didn't take long for us to discover what the problem was: she had
only been in the Air Force for about a week when, during Basic Training, she had become sick.
In fact, she had become so sick, so fast, the doctors were unable to diagnose her before she
passed away. For this reason, she had yet to be awarded rank, medals, or even a name tag. This
was very unusual and made the proper assembly of the boxes not only difficult, but impossible to
complete before the ceremony.
So, after much practice, we were forced to go along with the funeral without the shadow
boxes due to the time restrictions. With the exception of the missing boxes, the funeral went
perfectly. It was a very small ceremony with only a handful of people attending, including the
mother and father, who sat on opposite sides of the group.
Afterwards, we left to complete the shadow boxes and tried to make arrangements to
deliver them. The father was easy to reach and told us that he was available at any time. He
explained how he lived alone and worked as a truck driver, so he had an awkward sleep schedule
and didn't mind visitors, regardless of the time of day.
The mother, on the other hand, was impossible to reach. For this reason, the father
offered to deliver her box to her as thanks for our hard work and the “beautiful ceremony.” He
explained that, although he and her didn't usually talk, he would make an exception in this case
for his daughter.
So, I was tasked, along with another Honor Guard member, to suit-up and drive to this
man's house to deliver the boxes. More than willing to do this, we quickly acquired a black
government vehicle, got into our ceremonial attire, and drove to his home.
Upon arriving, we immediately noticed that he was sitting on the front bumper of his
semi. Beside it was a ragged trailer that was dwarfed by the massive truck. It looked as if it
could have been condemned at any moment. The yard was such a mess and the trailer was in
such a state of disrepair, my co-worker and I were both surprised that anyone lived there. If we
hadn't known the address or remembered the man's face, we would have never imagined that the
man from before, dressed in a suit and tie, was living there.
We pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and I carried the boxes to the man. His
eyes were puffy from crying for the last several days, and he just looked at me. He stared into
my eyes for a second when I realized that, since this type of circumstance had never happened
before, I didn't have anything prepared. I had nothing to say to him. I handed him the two boxes
as I looked directly into his tear-filled eyes and said the first thing that popped into my mind,
“Thank you for your sacrifice.”
At that moment, he dropped the boxes, grabbed me in the heaviest hug I had ever had,
and relentlessly cried on my shoulder. Knowing that I had to keep my military bearing and stand
there at the position of attention, arms to my side, emotionless, and distinguished, I did what I
had to do: I hugged him back and cried with him.
Neither of us said anything, but it was one of the deepest conversations I have ever had. I
instantly understood who he was, where he had come from, and how these last couple of months
had unfolded for him. I understood how he had lost his wife, his home, and finally, his only
child. I felt the weight that he carried on his shoulders, and I wanted to help him -- but all I could
do was stand there and thank him for his sacrifice. I knew that I could never give him his
daughter back, but I could give him a shoulder to cry on. So I broke every rule I had ever
practiced.
Although I knew what I had done was against the regulations and that I could be stripped
of rank, fined a large percentage of my paycheck, and heavily reprimanded, I didn't care. We
embraced each other for what seemed like an eternity until he pushed me away, looked me in the
eye, and said, “No, thank you.”
At that point, he picked up the boxes, turned around, and walked into the dilapidated
trailer. After he disappeared, I turned around and saw my co-worker staring at me in disbelief.
He and I both knew that he had to report the ordeal, and we both knew what could happen
because of it.
So, we climbed back into the car and started making our way back to the base. We didn't
say anything to each other the entire way. The silence in the car was deafening. There really
wasn't anything to say.
When we pulled up to the Honor Guard headquarters, we parked the car and started the
long walk to the building. I was afraid of what I had in store for me, but felt that the punishment,
whatever it would be, was worth it. I decided to embrace what was to come instead of fearing it.
Inside, I knew that I was better off with the decisions I had made than with any other alternative.
At that moment my co-worker announced, “I think what you did was the only way it
could have been handled.” Although we both knew that what had happened was against the
rules, we both silently agreed that, in order to act on what is right, sometimes the rules needed to
be broken. We both understood that the man that had lost everything needed something more
than a practiced speech and a salute. With only a look, we both agreed to keep this a secret.
I feel confident that I made the right decision that day and, even now, I feel that I wouldn't
have changed a thing.
During my brief time with the US Air Force I participated in many jobs, extra duties, and
public activities. Amongst these, the one that truly stands out to me was the time that I spent
with the Scott Air Force Base Honor Guard. Here, I was faced with one of the most difficult
tasks that I have ever encountered throughout my life, and I will never forget it.
The Honor Guard is a group of military individuals that work as a set of teams to provide
ceremonial displays for a number of different types of events. Among their many duties, they
can raise the flag at the beginning of a sporting season, provide ceremonial guard at the Tomb of
the Unknown Soldier, and provide the last honors at a military funeral. Although all of their jobs
are equally important, the funerals seem to stand out in people's minds above all else. Almost
everyone instantly imagines servicemen carrying a casket in the rain, folding and presenting the
US flag to a family member who has lost a loved one, and the firing party conducting a
twenty-one gun salute for the deceased.
With these depressing images, it's no surprise that one of the most asked questions is,
“How did you do it without crying?” And, while keeping your “military bearing” can be one of
the most difficult aspects of the job, it is extremely necessary in order to provide the dignity and
honor to the deceased, that they earned throughout their service.
Not everyone was able to maintain their composure while they looked into the eyes of
another person, witnessed the grieving for a lost loved one, and presented a flag in exchange for
someone that could never be replaced. For this reason, there were a specified few of us that were
entrusted to carry out this part of the ceremony, every time. We trained rigorously, and had
several tricks to distance ourselves from the situation to preserve our military bearing and
professionalism.
Amongst these tricks, we used repetition and memorization to remove the grieving and
sadness from the funeral and make it a more impersonal job. When presenting a folded flag to
the next of kin, it was mandated that the individual recite, “On behalf of the President of the
United States, the Department of the Air Force, and a grateful nation, I present, to you, this flag.
You and your family are in our thoughts and prayers on this day.” A similar speech was
mandated when that individual returned to present three of the fired rifle casings used in the final
salute. These speeches were recited, practiced, and memorized to a point where it was no longer
personal, but almost mechanical.
Everything was calculated, planned, and practiced thousands of times before the public
ever saw us “perform” our duties. Even our commands and motions were mandated and
conducted to the point that a right hand was to be presented over a left hand in one situation, and
vice-versa in another. We used exorbitant amounts of attention to detail to focus our minds on
our job instead of the grieving that was all around us, all of the time. This routine and practice,
coupled with the extreme attention to detail, gave us an essential tool to provide the respect and
professionalism that was expected of us.
Although I knew that this was the case, I never understood just what a valuable tool this
was until it was too late.
One August day, we received notice that there would be a funeral for a young girl in our
area, and that we needed to prepare for it. The details of this particular funeral would quickly
come to light since we were unable to find any information on the young lady. It was almost as if
she had never joined the Air Force at all.
On top of this, we were asked to provide two flags, as well as two shadow boxes for those
flags, for the funeral. This information usually meant that the flags would be presented to the
parents of the deceased, and that those parents were separated.
Assembling the shadow boxes for these flags proved to be extremely difficult since we
were unable to find her rank, name tags, or any medals that she had been awarded. We were
forced to fabricate these items ourselves, which delayed the assembly even further.
Because of this issue, it didn't take long for us to discover what the problem was: she had
only been in the Air Force for about a week when, during Basic Training, she had become sick.
In fact, she had become so sick, so fast, the doctors were unable to diagnose her before she
passed away. For this reason, she had yet to be awarded rank, medals, or even a name tag. This
was very unusual and made the proper assembly of the boxes not only difficult, but impossible to
complete before the ceremony.
So, after much practice, we were forced to go along with the funeral without the shadow
boxes due to the time restrictions. With the exception of the missing boxes, the funeral went
perfectly. It was a very small ceremony with only a handful of people attending, including the
mother and father, who sat on opposite sides of the group.
Afterwards, we left to complete the shadow boxes and tried to make arrangements to
deliver them. The father was easy to reach and told us that he was available at any time. He
explained how he lived alone and worked as a truck driver, so he had an awkward sleep schedule
and didn't mind visitors, regardless of the time of day.
The mother, on the other hand, was impossible to reach. For this reason, the father
offered to deliver her box to her as thanks for our hard work and the “beautiful ceremony.” He
explained that, although he and her didn't usually talk, he would make an exception in this case
for his daughter.
So, I was tasked, along with another Honor Guard member, to suit-up and drive to this
man's house to deliver the boxes. More than willing to do this, we quickly acquired a black
government vehicle, got into our ceremonial attire, and drove to his home.
Upon arriving, we immediately noticed that he was sitting on the front bumper of his
semi. Beside it was a ragged trailer that was dwarfed by the massive truck. It looked as if it
could have been condemned at any moment. The yard was such a mess and the trailer was in
such a state of disrepair, my co-worker and I were both surprised that anyone lived there. If we
hadn't known the address or remembered the man's face, we would have never imagined that the
man from before, dressed in a suit and tie, was living there.
We pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and I carried the boxes to the man. His
eyes were puffy from crying for the last several days, and he just looked at me. He stared into
my eyes for a second when I realized that, since this type of circumstance had never happened
before, I didn't have anything prepared. I had nothing to say to him. I handed him the two boxes
as I looked directly into his tear-filled eyes and said the first thing that popped into my mind,
“Thank you for your sacrifice.”
At that moment, he dropped the boxes, grabbed me in the heaviest hug I had ever had,
and relentlessly cried on my shoulder. Knowing that I had to keep my military bearing and stand
there at the position of attention, arms to my side, emotionless, and distinguished, I did what I
had to do: I hugged him back and cried with him.
Neither of us said anything, but it was one of the deepest conversations I have ever had. I
instantly understood who he was, where he had come from, and how these last couple of months
had unfolded for him. I understood how he had lost his wife, his home, and finally, his only
child. I felt the weight that he carried on his shoulders, and I wanted to help him -- but all I could
do was stand there and thank him for his sacrifice. I knew that I could never give him his
daughter back, but I could give him a shoulder to cry on. So I broke every rule I had ever
practiced.
Although I knew what I had done was against the regulations and that I could be stripped
of rank, fined a large percentage of my paycheck, and heavily reprimanded, I didn't care. We
embraced each other for what seemed like an eternity until he pushed me away, looked me in the
eye, and said, “No, thank you.”
At that point, he picked up the boxes, turned around, and walked into the dilapidated
trailer. After he disappeared, I turned around and saw my co-worker staring at me in disbelief.
He and I both knew that he had to report the ordeal, and we both knew what could happen
because of it.
So, we climbed back into the car and started making our way back to the base. We didn't
say anything to each other the entire way. The silence in the car was deafening. There really
wasn't anything to say.
When we pulled up to the Honor Guard headquarters, we parked the car and started the
long walk to the building. I was afraid of what I had in store for me, but felt that the punishment,
whatever it would be, was worth it. I decided to embrace what was to come instead of fearing it.
Inside, I knew that I was better off with the decisions I had made than with any other alternative.
At that moment my co-worker announced, “I think what you did was the only way it
could have been handled.” Although we both knew that what had happened was against the
rules, we both silently agreed that, in order to act on what is right, sometimes the rules needed to
be broken. We both understood that the man that had lost everything needed something more
than a practiced speech and a salute. With only a look, we both agreed to keep this a secret.
I feel confident that I made the right decision that day and, even now, I feel that I wouldn't
have changed a thing.
